


Tomorrow Day

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: (but there is some at least), A Lot Less Sex & Dirty Talk Than You Might Expect, Accidental meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Phone Sex, Phone sex hotline, Reluctant Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: It's not that she's hurting for money. Sure, who couldn't use a little extra income these days? But Furiosa's living expenses are pretty manageable, all things considered. And it's not that she started the job as a joke, or was forced into it. She just saw an advert looking for people to answer phone calls of a particular nature and realized that it was something she could do. It's not like it's particularlydifficultto think up synonyms for 'penis' and she can work exactly the hours she wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com/post/146971884111/this-was-not-supposed-to-be-a-fic-in-fact-i)!
> 
> I still don't know where this one came from. Please enjoy the social awkwardness and general lack of sex. Title is from the Arctic Monkey's "[Do I Wanna Know?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpOSxM0rNPM)"

It's not that she's hurting for money. Sure, who couldn't use a little extra income these days? But Furiosa's living expenses are pretty manageable, all things considered. And it's not that she started the job as a joke, or was forced into it. She just saw an advert looking for people to answer phone calls of a particular nature and realized that it was something she could do. It's not like it's particularly _difficult_ to think up synonyms for 'penis' and she can work exactly the hours she wants.

After two or so years she's good at it. It's harder work than she'd thought it would be at first, but she can't say she doesn't get a little thrill of her own out of it, putting on an act that's good enough to fool even the skeptics that call her up.

Not ever caller is looking for what she provides, of course- she has her limits, her specialties. And it's not uncommon to get people calling in and just hanging up without saying anything at all, feet suddenly too cold to go through with it, even though their card is still going to be charged the flat initial fee anyway.

Furiosa gets one such caller- dead silence on the other end of the phone, aside from the very faint sound of breathing to let her know there's even someone alive over there. They hang up without saying anything while she's still only halfway through her scripted introduction and she shrugs, and waits for the next.

Perhaps thirty minutes of faked phone sex later she gets another call, and this time she finishes her introduction as planned, with a coy, "What's _your_ name?"

Enough silence ensues that Furiosa wonders if it's another disconnect, and if she should complain to dispatch to stop sending her duds. They're not uncommon but they mess with her stats, which dispatch is well aware of.

Finally the person on the other end of the line clears their throat and says, "...Does it matter?"

It's hardly the first time a caller's wanted to be anonymous. It's more a problem that he's really not giving her anything to work with but she's been doing this a while and sometimes guys need encouragement.

Furiosa shrugs to herself and asks him if he wants to know what she's wearing, because it's a cliche but it works. He grunts out something that sounds like an affirmative so even though she in reality hasn't changed out of her grimy work clothes yet she goes for it. "I just got out of the shower, wearing only a thin robe that's-"

"No," her caller interrupts, and blows out a frustrated breath. "Don't, you don't need to, I just- sorry for wasting your time"

Normally if a caller doesn't like what she's describing they correct her- no, she's really wearing boots up to her thighs, she's dressed like a nurse, she's already naked- but she doesn't think she's ever had someone apologize for wasting her time before because of it. It's a little weird.

Weirder is that he hasn't hung up yet, despite the reigning silence.

"Hey," Furiosa says, slipping out of her seductive work voice, "You there?"

The call disconnects abruptly. She shrugs, and saves the number because that's protocol, and mourns a little the fact that short calls like that fuck over her stats, though she has enough regulars to compensate.

   


A week later the same guy calls again, and Furiosa doesn't at first connect the random ID she'd assigned his number with the person who apologized.

She rattles off her generic script, and he still doesn't give a name but he clears his throat and mumbles out a, "Does it have to be. Can you just."

She recognizes the voice then, and wonders if he's going to stay on the line long enough this time to be worth her while. "I can do whatever you'd like," she tells him, laying it on a bit thick because the odds of him picking any of her hard limits seem slim. The ones with _those_ interests usually have no trouble being up-front about it.

He's quiet for a moment, then, "Can you just talk? Normally."

"What do you want to hear?" It's easy enough to drop the affected tone of her working voice, and it's usually the regulars who want the illusion that their calls mean more to her than a paycheck but Furiosa's willing to indulge him.

The caller makes a vague noise, "Is ah, is the weather there nice?"

Furiosa raises an eyebrow because _the weather_? He's paying for the privilege of her (supposedly) undivided attention, and he wants to hear her talk about a topic strangers in elevators try to avoid?

Well, he wouldn't be the first with a random kink and anyway- whatever keeps him on the line.

She tells him how hot the weather is, and that she hasn't been wearing much in the way of clothes lately- which is actually not a lie, although being constantly damp with sweat is nowhere as alluring as she's making it out to be- but he doesn't bite.

So Furiosa spends twenty or so minutes getting paid to make awkward but apparently innocent conversation with a stranger, which at least makes up for how short his last call was in terms of her stats. The caller doesn't share much of anything about himself and she can't really pin down why he's called- he's obviously lonely if he's paying to talk to someone, but even the most awkward callers either hang up or get comfortable enough to talk about whatever fantasy it was that tipped them over into calling.

It's definitely strange, but not a bad break from pretending to orgasm on demand, and when he finally does hang up Furiosa updates the information tagged to his phone number accordingly.

   


A week later he calls again, and this time when she asks what he wants the nameless caller clears his throat nervously and mumbles something that sounds more like the sort of questions she's used to fielding.

"What do you like? When you're, um, touching yourself," he says.

Furiosa feels almost disappointed to see that the mystery of his odd calls has been solved- it really was only a need to get comfortable with the idea of talking to her after all- but she's relieved at the same time, because pretending to be genuinely attached to a stranger whose name she doesn't even know is not something she wants to do, no matter if she's being paid or not.

She starts to spin out the fantasy of herself- going easy on the voice because he once again asks her to speak normally, and maybe that's his fetish: deadpan deliveries- keeping it just believable enough to not make her roll her eyes too hard, and listens for what he responds best to.

She's good at this job is the thing, even though most callers are transparent in their desires (why wouldn't they be? they're paying, they might as well ask for exactly what they want). This caller is as easy to read as any other when she actually focuses on it, one eye on her timer to make sure the call lasts enough to be worthwhile while she listens to his breathing pick up, grow uneven.

"Are you hard?" Furiosa asks in between describing how wet and eager she supposedly is from describing her masturbatory habits to him, trying not to slip into her usual work-persona voice for all that her curiosity _is_ professional- mostly. She hasn't heard any noises over the line that make her think he's actually touching himself and combined with their other interactions it's just unusual enough to pique her interest.

He makes a reluctant sort of grunt, and she can't help the satisfied smirk that curls at the edges of her lips. He might be willing to pay for twenty minutes of idle chitchat but he's really there for the same reasons as any of her other callers in the end, and for her there's always a little thrill at learning how to manipulate someone's reactions.

"Are you touching yourself?"

A negative grunt at that, but asking if he _wants_ to touch himself gets her a noise with a whining note to it, and her smile deepens because she thinks she has his number, now.

"You should," she says, "I'd like it if you would; if you'd pull out your hard cock for me. Will you?"

There's a hitching breath and then the muted noise of a zipper, fabric rustling. Furiosa eyes the timer; it's been more than ten minutes since the call started, so while she's in no rush- her commission is by the minute, after all- she doesn't feel pressured to draw it out, especially when he hasn't asked for anything in particular and walking a guy through masturbating is hardly rocket science.

"That's it," she says in encouragement, voice dropping back down in range as she pretends that she's just _dying_ to listen to him jack off. "Stroke that big dick of yours for me."

It doesn't take very long for the caller to come, with a drawn-out groan like it almost hurts him. He doesn't hang up right away but stays on the line while he calms his breathing down, and she wonders if he wants her to narrate cleaning him up or something along that vein.

After a minute he thanks her with quiet sincerity and, taken by surprise, instead of purring out her usual sultry "my pleasure" Furiosa simply tells him that he's welcome.

   


He becomes one of her regulars after that, though more often than not he still wants to spend his money talking about nothing in particular.

She teases him about it once or twice when she thinks he's comfortable enough with her not to take offense at it, but doesn't press to much in case he takes it as a hint to stop. It's certainly unusual, but chatting about football scores or car specs with him is hardly the worst thing she could be getting paid to do.

Her mystery caller calls every week, always on the same day, usually within the same frame of hours. Though he's taciturn he lets out little details of his life now and again that make her curious to know more, that are so unguarded Furiosa herself slips herself a time or two and forgets that she's playing a character for him. It's the voice that's fucking her up, she thinks- without the sexpot voice she normally uses for clients it's harder to separate her persona from reality, harder to remember that she's not just chatting over the phone with a friend. It's pretty stupid to let herself think about him as anything but strictly a client, but after a few weeks of this routine she can't deny that she's grown weirdly fond of him.

It's not always conversation; he calls to use her actual advertised services as well, growing less shy but still only asking for pretty vanilla things- no elaborate kinks, no sound effects, no roleplay scenes. He doesn't like pretending that they're in the same room, that he's actually fucking her- he'll talk about _if you were_ , and _I wish_ , and trade instructions back and forth, but whenever she starts pretending to actually be there with him he gets cagey.

"It's just a fantasy," Furiosa tells him, "You're allowed to imagine anything you want."

He grunts noncommittally, and she forces herself to let it go. It's something different for everyone, and really, keeping a stronger dividing line between fantasy and reality should be a good thing in this situation.

   


It's almost a letdown when he tells her his name. She mentions it, purposefully casual, as if she hasn't been wondering since the first time she realized he was going to become a regular.

"Ah," he says, and she can hear the awkwardness in his voice. "I'm Max."

Furiosa hadn't even brought herself to tease him about it, like she might another caller. It's a perfectly ordinary name, short and easy to remember, something she can imagine popping into his head as a plausible fake. The question of why he would bother giving her a fake at this point hovers in the corner of her mind, but she doesn't give it much thought. Plenty of guys give her fake names- it's not like she's using _her_ real name, either.

   


It's a perfectly ordinary Tuesday and she's in the middle of describing how much she supposedly wishes she could blow him when Max's voice suddenly goes pained, rather than pleased.

"You alright?" Furiosa asks, because that wasn't anywhere in the range of good noises that she's heard from him so far, and it's something of an urban legend but supposedly another operator's client once upon a time had a heart attack on the line...

There's nothing but harsh breathing for a moment, then he rasps out a, "Sorry, it's not- my knee's acting up."

Furiosa makes a sympathetic noise, more genuine than it probably should be considering. His voice sounds too young for her to think it's arthritis but it does sounds like it's a habitual sort of pain- not that it's any of her concern. Casually she asks, "How'd you hurt it?"

Max is quiet, then, "Shotgun shell."

She blinks, because that isn't at all what she was picturing- an old sports injury maybe, or just that he'd slammed up against a piece of furniture- but there's no lie in his voice, and she doesn't think he's the type to try and make himself more macho with a fake war story. She taps the rubbery grips of her artificial fingers against the top of her desk and settles on a commiserating "That sucks" for her answer.

He grunts.

The silence is awkward, and considering how secretive he is- it had taken nearly three months for him to give her a name to use, and still no telling if it's real or fake- she figures he'll hang up and quite likely never call again now that she knows something as personal as this.

"Want a distraction?" she asks, keeping her voice light and her expectations in check.

To her surprise he does, and they talk about his next-step plans for his car rehab project until the extra strain in his voice smooths out to his usual low rumble.

Furiosa really shouldn't, but she keeps thinking about him even after logging out of the call system for the night. She wonders how he got shot, and whether his leg hurts him often, and if it has anything to do with why he calls her instead of going to look for someone in person to talk to, to be with.

With some clients it's obvious they're looking for training wheels, getting used to the idea of talking to a woman in this context before actually trying it in person, but Max hasn't said a word about anything like that. Nor is he using her as a discreet thrill for whatever his wife isn't into- his tastes are mundane enough to not scare off the vast majority, and the closest thing to a relationship he seems to have is with his dog.

Clearly she's investing too much interest in this. She should pass Max's next call on to another operator, or at least take some steps to reinforce the division between reality and acting. All the talk about how much she wishes she was touching him, how much she wants him- it's fucking her up more than pretending to actually be in the same room would, Furiosa thinks.

   


She _should_ pass along his file, but... she doesn't.

The next few calls she spends like she has too many others thus far- talking about random topics, letting her real personality override her work persona, spinning out the illusion that they're actually friends until she starts wondering how much is an illusion. She'll see something at the garage that reminds her of Max's own project and will smile to herself before forcing it down; she catches herself thinking 'wait till Max hears about this'; she has to bite her tongue before referencing him in another conversation.

It's fine, she has it under control.

So what if she's gotten closer to a client than she should? She's heard stories of other operators doing the same, and at the end of the day Max is just a voice on the other end of a phone line- she has no intention of getting suckered into the fantasy of actually meeting him.

   


A burned-on layer of coffee sludge at the bottom of the garage's pot has Furiosa stopping by a coffee shop instead, waiting dispassionately for her order to be called out. It's a fairly busy day; she doesn't take any interest in the people surrounding her as she leans against the vaguely sticky pick-up counter until amid the general chatter she hears a familiar voice grunting out his order.

She jerks her head around to his direction before she can think better of it, because she is sure that it's Max's voice she's hearing. She doesn't know what Max looks like, of course, so it's not like she'll be able to know from looking, but the impulse to put a face to his voice is too strong to resist, especially caught off guard like this. She's wondered what he looks like in an idle sort of way- he's never offered any description of himself and she's never asked- and in absence of that her imagination has sketched in a dozen different possibilities.

She can't see the man's face at this angle, but the man who'd spoken looks... normal. About her height, hair a nondescript shaggy brown, broad shoulders hunched in on themselves. His jacket's worn, the leather discolored and stained in places; there's a brace strapped around his knee over dark jeans and she doesn't let herself think about what Max had said about his knee being injured.

It can't be Max because she can't let herself think of Max as anything more than a client, a voice on the other end of her phone line. The man steps away from the counter and faces her direction and- oh. Oh hell. There's nothing but a vague wariness in his expression but his face is far too handsome to belong to the sort of man who pays a stranger weekly to talk about the weather and to pretend to finger her.

That wariness clouds over to irritation, and she realizes that she's been looking at him for long enough that she's staring. Furiosa flashes an awkwardly apologetic smile and looks away, back to the counter where she's waiting for her drink to be finished.

She's overly aware of the man- not Max, it can't be, thinking she recognized his voice was just a coincidence- as she waits. The server calls out her name and she tenses, because she'd forgotten they do that here- but of course she uses her real name for her coffee order, not the fake that's more palatable for clients.

It occurs to her as she steps away from the counter that she'll probably hear the man's name if she hangs around, and it's really not _so_ common for men to want to hear a fake name unless they're roleplaying, so when the server says "Tom" or "Frank" or whatever this man's name is, she'll know for sure that he really isn't the same man who calls her hotline.

There aren't any open tables so it's not particularly out of place for her to lean against the wall, idly scanning the mid-morning crowd as she sips her coffee, uncomfortably aware of the man's presence. The man flicks his eyes over to her, just a split second that she doesn't react to at all.

"Max," the server call out dully, coffee cup in hand, and Furiosa feels a jolt run through her.

She squashes down the reaction ruthlessly. So this man's name is Max, what of it? It's a common enough name, it doesn't mean that this isn't still all just a coincidence, a man with the same voice as her Max and a hurt knee the same as her Max also going by the name of Max.

The man- the stranger, the person who is definitely not the same Max she talks to on the phone- takes his coffee without saying anything. His eyes dart over to her again, there and away in a flash of grey-blue under a furrowed brow, before he turns and leaves the shop.

Furiosa most certainly doesn't let out a shaky breath as the door closes behind him, disguised as a sip of coffee.

   


When Max- her client, one she has never met before and most certainly never will- calls for his weekly chat, the man from the coffee shop swirls though her mind. It's poor form to think of someone else when she's working with a caller, but his voice in her ear matches perfectly with her memory of the stranger, suits the face she'd seen. And what if the Max from the coffee shop _is_ the same Max as the one one talking to her now, if he really does have those eyes and those lips and those hands, broad around the flimsy cardboard take-away cup.

Only rarely does talking about sex actually turn her on these days, no matter how otherwise sexy the talk might be, how delicious the caller's voice. Furiosa's heard too many fantasies of all description, faked her way through too many orgasms for it to do much of anything for her.

But with Max's voice melding with the image of the Max from the coffee shop in her mind as he growls out the fantasy of the day- how he wants her to sit on his face, what he would do for her if she let him- it's turning her on, making her grow hot and wet, the responses she's narrating for him flirting with the line of real-or-faked.

Even with the distraction she's a professional. It's difficult to keep her distance but she talks him through the scene until he's groaning in release, and she refuses to rush him into hanging up with his usual genuine-sounding thanks. It's only after the line goes dead that she lets herself slip her hand down the front of her pants to bring herself off, mind an endless pendulum swinging between how terrible it is to be thinking of a client like this, and how amazing the fantasy is when she lets herself actually picture it, Max-from-the-coffee-shop and Max-her-client merging into one person.

The conflict isn't enough to stop her from touching herself until she comes, quick and hard while she's sprawled out in her desk chair. Furiosa allows herself an entire twenty seconds to revel in the glow of her orgasm before letting out a groan of despair because she is _so_ fucked.

The right thing to do would be to stop taking Max's calls. She should have a while ago really, from the first moment she let the division between her real self and her work persona slip, since she first realized that she was looking forward to his awkward phone calls as a bright spot in her week.

So very, very fucked, and not in _any_ of the fun ways.

   


Midway through the week, Furiosa tells the hotline dispatcher that she's taking some time off. She'll piss off a decent number of her regulars and have to build her stats back up with gruntwork, but she needs the break.

Her usual day for Max to call comes, and she shuts her work phone up in a drawer so she won't be tempted to log into the system.

   


It's her personal phone that rings the next day, "Ride of the Valkyries" playing over the tinny speakers because Val will pout if she ever changes her ringtone to something less ridiculous, and it's exactly the sort of distraction that she's been looking for.

Valkyrie asks if she wants to grab coffee and Furiosa thinks about the slim but still there chance of running into Max-from-the-coffee-shop and replies with a weary, "I'd rather just get drunk."

The bar isn't one she's familiar with but it doesn't have the nightclub atmosphere of the place she sometimes meets the girls at; they can actually hold a conversation without either of them shouting and see each others' faces without a flashlight.

Valkyrie lets her down her first drink in silence before asking questions, and Furiosa doesn't really want to talk about it, but...

"There's this guy," she says, and winces internally because fuck, that sounds pathetic, and doesn't at all capture what's really going on. Valkyrie raises an eyebrow but says nothing. "One of my clients, a regular," she amends, which doesn't sound much better. Furiosa glares down at her empty glass and tries to figure out how to tackle the issue.

"Does he need to be taken out?" Val asks.

She shakes her head before Valkyrie gets any ideas of becoming a vigilante. "He's not a creep," Furiosa says, "it's sort of the opposite,"

She watches Valkyrie's face as she thinks that over. "He's not creepy enough?" she asks, deliberately obtuse.

Furiosa takes a drink and reminds herself that she's the one who invited this conversation. "He's fine, it's... He wants to talk most of the time. Just talk. About- fuck, about the weather and cars and sports. Normal stuff."

Valkyrie says nothing, but her expression is mildly incredulous.

"He wanted a friend more than he wanted sex, I think, and I'm getting paid either way, right?" She takes a fortifying breath. "Turns out he's the sort of guy I can be friends with."

"Furi..." Val says, voice betraying her apprehension. It's pretty much the only problem she's yet to run into with clients- creeps and pervs of all description she can handle, even those looking to push her limits or find out where she lives, but befriending one of them? It hasn't happened before, hasn't ever been a concern. Sure she's been fonder of some than others, but at the end of the day they're all just voices on a phone line to her.

"I know," she says, "Believe me. And you haven't even heard the best part yet."

Valkyrie flags down a waiter for refills on their drinks, then makes a 'go on' gesture.

"I think I saw him," Furiosa says.

"He was following you?" Valkyrie says immediately, eyes sharp, and Furiosa shakes her head.

"He was just at a cafe," she replies, "I thought I heard his voice so I turned and looked, and..." She shrugs. "He had the same name, and a bum knee the same as my caller."

"Shit," Val says, and leans back in her chair. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing," she says, "I waited for him to leave."

Valkyrie takes a sip of her drink while she studies Furiosa's face. "Just a close encounter's not enough to knock you for a loop like this," she says, voice evaluative, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Furiosa resists the urge to squirm in her chair with guilt, fingers playing with the condensation on the side of her glass.

"Friends my ass, you _like_ him, don't you?" It's said with a strange mix of incredulity and amusement, and Furiosa avoids meeting her eyes. "A _client_?" Valkyrie asks, "Some anonymous mouthbreather wanting to play make-believe?"

"It's not like that," Furiosa says weakly, hating the teasing but knowing that Valkyrie is right, knowing that she's just gotten too attached and needs a reality check.

"Was he at least good looking? Or have you fallen for some eighty-year-old with no teeth because he's _just so good_ at pretending to fuck for hours?"

Furiosa musters a halfhearted glare.

"I wouldn't have pictured you of all people in this position," Val says with a mocking shake of her head, "But I guess _he_ could imagine it, huh?"

"And now you know why we're drinking," Furiosa says, deciding to ignore Valkyrie's statements. She doesn't say that Max doesn't know anything about it, that as far as she knows he thinks of it as a purely transactional relationship. Which it _is_ , she has to remind herself, it's nothing but a service bought and paid for.

"Shit, Furi," Valkyrie says, closer to serious again, "What are you going to do? Drop him as a client, obviously, but after that?"

Furiosa finishes off the dregs of her drink, wishing that the alcohol was doing more to help. "I didn't take his call this week," she says with a shrug.

"A good start," Val says, and starts outlining what else she might do, ranging from the practical- have dispatch block his number- to absurd- hang around where she saw him and ask him out.

It's good to get it off her chest, knowing that for all of Valkyrie's teasing she's honestly trying her best to be supportive, knowing that she won't gossip about it to anyone either. She's still relieved when they wind their way to talking about less sensitive and weird subjects, until Furiosa is feeling pleasantly at ease, warm and buzzed from the alcohol and the company.

"I think that guy's gonna make a pass at you," Valkyrie leans across the table to stage-whisper at her. "He's been staring at you for like, ten minutes. Wanna be girlfriends? Or maybe you should go for it, get your mind off you-know-who."

Furiosa twists in her seat to see who she means, because if the guy's not horrible looking it really _might_ be a good idea to go for a random hookup. Maybe it's just been too long since she was last with anyone, and that's why she's developing abnormal attachments to her clients.

Her breath catches in her chest as she locks eyes with Max-from-the-coffee-shop, staring at her from the bar's counter and looking like he's been poleaxed. She snaps away back to Valkyrie in an instant, the evening's relaxation fleeing.

"That's the guy," she says just loud enough to be heard across the table.

"What, really?" Valkyrie shows absolutely no subtlety as she cranes her neck to take him in, but thankfully she keeps her comments quiet enough that he won't be able to hear them. "Okay, so a bit scruffy but not old, at least. You could do worse. Aaand he's gone."

"He's leaving?" Furiosa asks, resisting the urge to turn back around and check for herself. There isn't any real reason she can think of for an actual stranger to look at her with that surprised expression, which means he probably recognized her voice, which means coffee-shop-Max and client-Max _are_ the same person, damn it all.

"Like his ass was on fire," Val confirms. "Think he recognized you?"

Just seeing the same stranger twice shouldn't provoke someone to run away like that, and he'd been standing plenty close to hear their conversation in the quiet atmosphere of the bar. Furiosa sends her a flat look in answer.

"Well, wanna to go jump him out in the parking lot?"

"No," she says firmly, uncaring whether Val was suggesting jumping him for a fight or a fuck, "Let's just finish our drinks and get a cab back to my place."

"Stay with me tonight," Valkyrie says, "Just in case he decides to be a creep and follow us."

Furiosa doesn't think that he will, but it's not a bad idea. Her stomach is roiling anyway, the booze and her guilt and a ridiculous, pathetic feeling that she doesn't want to label as rejection churning in her guts, and if she's going to puke she might as well not risk her own sheets.

Max doesn't follow them, and Furiosa curls up next to Valkyrie on her bed, hand teasing out tangles in Val's long black hair. She tries to fall asleep but she can't stop thinking about it all- the odds of running into not just any client but Max, and twice at that; how shocked he had looked; how even knowing better she's still thinking about continuing to take his calls, assuming he even wants to call again.

It is, after all, a completely different thing to lust after the unobtainable voice on the end of a phone line than it is to be presented with an actual person. And there's the fact that- well. Furiosa sweeps the stump of her left arm against Valkyrie's sheets and tries not to think about how she's hardly living up to the image of her work persona, the perfect woman who is always exactly what her clients want.

   


When she decides to log back in to the hotline it's only been just over a week, but Furiosa expects that it'll be hard to get into the swing of things, that she'll be back to acting like it's her first week and she has too much residual shame, but it's as easy as it ever was. She just listens to what they want and then gives it to them.

The majority of her regular callers seem unperturbed by her unexplained absence the week prior- one turns it into a fantasy for their session, another asks if she was sick. A few don't call in at all and she wonders if she'll ever hear from them again but doesn't worry about it much.

And then Max's day come around, and she jumps every time her work phone rings. Furiosa is sure that he won't be calling, not after being stood up and then seeing her in person, but she couldn't bring herself to have his number blocked from her line.

Just on the last edges of his usual time range, her phone lights up with his ID.

She stares at the phone and thinks about ignoring it for a split second before picking up, skipping her unnecessary intro to just say, "Hi, Max."

There's silence, then the noise of him awkwardly clearing his throat, then more silence.

"Sorry I wasn't around last week," Furiosa says, the first time she's acknowledged how regularly he calls in and a completely transparent attempt to delay the inevitable.

"No," Max says, not taking the bait of the easy topic, "I... Was that-"

"We value the privacy and anonymity of our clients greatly," she says, heading off his attempts to articulate the question she can easily guess. Was that her at the bar? Was that her at the coffee shop? Of course it was, and she's hanging onto her remaining professionalism by a thread.

He's quiet for a moment. "That _was_ you," he says, "I thought, but..."

"I can transfer you to another operator if you'd be more comfortable," Furiosa says, because he probably doesn't want to talk to her now that she's seen his face, now that he knows what she actually looks like.

"No!" he barks out, following it up with a softer "Unless. Unless _you'd_ rather."

This should be where she hands him off to someone else and attempts to forget that it's ever happened. Instead she takes a fortifying breath and says, "I like talking with you."

It's a pretty weak admission, but it's genuine. She does like talking with him- hearing about his dog, and his never-finished car project, and arguing over which team is better- and she likes _talking_ with him, guiding him through his mundane fantasies until his voice is rough and breathless and he falls completely apart.

"Me too," Max admits, the honesty easy to read in his voice after so much time listening to it, "I didn't think I would."

"I can't keep you as a client," she says before she can make this worse, and hears the quiet dismayed noise he makes.

"Because I saw you?" he asks, and she shakes her head even though he won't be able to see it. "I won't, ah, do anything. Cause trouble."

"It's not because of that." Furiosa grits her teeth and forces the words out, because this is the last time that she knows for sure that she's going to be able to speak to him and she might as well, "It's because I like talking with you, more than I should."

He's quiet for so long that she almost worries that the line's disconnected, except that she knows he takes a while to find words some of the time. "I don't want to call anyone else," he says.

"You don't have to," she says, "You could find someone real if you wanted." There's no telling why he called her line in the first place, but he's handsome enough and articulate enough once he's warmed up that she can't imagine he would have much trouble meeting someone if he put his mind to it.

He lets out a frustrated noise. "I don't-" Max cuts himself off, breathes heavily through his nose so it fizzes the speaker of his phone. "Someone real?"

Furiosa taps the top of her desk, frustrated with how much she doesn't like the idea of it even though it's the right thing for both of them. "Yeah," she replies, "Someone who isn't just a voice on the phone."

"Suppose I'd find them, hmm, in a cafe," he says, "Bar, maybe."

"There's plenty of places," she agrees, not really wanting to discuss it in depth- she considers him a friend by now, but she has limits and helping him find someone to be with is beyond hers, "Give it a shot. Dating's cheaper than calling here, anyway."

Max hums, the bland sort that she can't find much meaning in. "Thank you, for everything," he says in a voice as sincere as it always is.

"It's been my pleasure," she can't resist saying, mouth quirking into a sad smile at how true her usual flippant tagline actually is this time.

He hangs up, and Furiosa logs the minutes into the system before asking dispatch to block his number from her line, just in case. If he does call her again she won't know, won't be tempted to fall back into talking with him, into thinking of him as a friend or longing for more.

   


It's easy enough to forget that anything has changed until it's been a week and Max's ID never lights up her phone. She's as busy as she always is, and the job is the same mix of rote scripts and wicked improvisation as it always is, but there's no one to update her on the state of their mechanical projects, no one who's paying but still wants to hear her complain about the driver who'd nearly run her over crossing the street.

The bright spot in her week is gone, and everything seems just a little dimmer for it.

Furiosa lets herself mope for another day, but it's ridiculous to draw it out any further, and she pushes herself to put Max and their calls out of her mind.

   


Really, she should have seen it coming.

Someone forgot to restock the grounds back at the garage and she can't bear the thought of facing a day of customers without some sort of caffeine in her system, so she treks to the nearest cafe. It's the same shop she saw Max in that one time, the same one she usually goes to when things like this happen and that she refuses to give up on principle.

It's busy, people crowded around the tiny tables and piled up four-deep in line, and Furiosa resigns herself to showing up to work later than she planned.

She gives her order and her name, but when she attempts to hand over the money to pay a familiar voice just past her shoulder says- "May I?"

Furiosa slams the bills on the counter and whirls around, startled. Standing there looking nervous and not quite as scruffy as the last she'd seen him is Max, one hand holding out a wallet.

"No," she replies sharply, unsure whether she's refuting the offer or his presence in general, despite the fact that she's pretty sure she is neither dreaming nor hallucinating.

"Um," says the cashier, "Your change?"

She turns her back on Max to finish the transaction, jamming the loose change into her pocket, and steps aside to the pick-up counter without so much as glancing at him.

Furiosa takes a breath and resents the fact that she has to steady herself, because this was not the sort of situation that should unsettle her. This is just someone she knows running into her in a public space, something that happens every day.

"Sorry," Max says when he's placed an order and moved just close enough to where she's standing by the counter to not be in the way of the line. "That, um, went better in my head."

"You startled me," she replies, because that was at least half of it- she wasn't expecting anyone to come up from behind her, friendly intentions or not.

He ducks his head, shoulders drawing up. "M'sorry."

Furiosa takes in the sight of him, his eyes glancing at her and away again, hands tucked away in the pockets of his jacket. Utterly normal, right at home in the shop, and thus at odds with her memories of talking with him.

But his presence makes her think... It had taken months for their paths to cross that once, and here he is not just visiting the same shop at the same time as her again, which seems unlikely but feasible, but also managing to be right behind her in line- let alone the fact that he had his wallet out to offer to pay for hers- that some aspect of it had "gone better in his head" to suggest it wasn't entirely spontaneous.

"This isn't a coincidence, is it?" she asks, and the way his face starts to flush red is confirmation enough.

With a different client this would have her reaching for her phone to dial the police- a coincidental meeting is one thing, but intentionally trying to see her is entirely another. But... it's Max, and they're in a public space with plenty of witnesses, and he hasn't been her client for two weeks now, and she's had some thoughts about visiting that bar again, herself.

"I'll leave," Max says, already angling himself towards the door, "Just thought... But sorry."

"Stay," she says, "You haven't even picked up your order yet."

It's his turn to look surprised, and by the honesty of his expression she doesn't think offering to leave had been a ploy. Furiosa doesn't think much of anything he's done could have been a ploy, really- even someone dedicated to manipulating another person wouldn't pay to have idle conversations, not with no apparent motive other than getting comfortable with her at first, and continuing because he simply enjoyed it.

The very bored server calls out her name, cup in hand, and Max tilts his head like a curious dog. She takes the coffee and waits for him to make some comment about how unusual her name is, how jagged and intimidating it sounds.

Max only nods as if to himself, and she wonders if it surprises him that she'd been using a fake during their calls, if he'll still want to use it even knowing her real name now.

Furiosa sips at her coffee, still standing by the counter, and when Max takes his own order she asks, "You have anyplace to be?"

He shakes his head. "You?"

She should get going on her way to the garage, but they'll survive without her for a little while longer. She shrugs a shoulder in answer.

"There's a table," Max says, pointing off to one corner of the shop. "If you want to, ah, share."

There's something absurd about squeezing around a tiny table in a crowded coffee shop with a man she's listened to orgasm dozens of times but has only seen in person three times now. he seems to feel similarly, his mouth twitching up into a wry sort of smile.

"Sure," she replies, stepping away from the counter where they're disrupting the flow of other customers.

"So, Furiosa?" he says it with hesitation as they walk over, like he wants to make sure it's right but not like he's making fun of it. She's never heard him say her real name before and something in her stomach swoops at the sound, as utterly ridiculous as it is. "Weather's nice today, hmm?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with actual sex! Originally posted [on tumblr](http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com/post/149021818455/hey-owlship-its-me-the-embarrassed-anonymous).

Furiosa has pretty low expectations about what's going to happen now that she's met Max. Talking with him over coffee is nice, if stilted at first- she keeps hearing echoes of some of his sex noises in the little hums and grunts he makes while talking- but though there's definitely a spark, she has to consider the fact that she met him by working a sex hotline where he was a paying customer. Undoubtedly it's the fact that she already considers him a friend that helps smooth the way.

When their coffee is drunk and she really does have to get back to work, he writes out his phone number on a slip of napkin and suggests that if she wants, maybe they could see each other again, on purpose?

"You're not trying to get a free session, are you?" she asks jokingly, secure in the fact that she doesn't think that's his aim at all.

Max's face goes red, but he shakes his head like the thought hadn't even occurred to him. "No, I just-"

"Relax," she says, and slips the napkin into her pocket. "If I thought you were the type, I wouldn't be here."

The defensive slant to his shoulders relaxes, and he nods a little. Furiosa gets up from the table and he follows, waiting to throw out his own coffee cup from a respectful distance rather than crowding her in. Another point in his favor, not that she thinks he's considering points with his actions.

"It was good talking with you," he says awkwardly, like he'd rather be giving her his usual post-call thanks.

"I'll text you," she replies with an answering nod, and waits for him to turn in the opposite direction down the street before heading back to the garage herself.

She calls Valkyrie first. Furiosa is a grown woman who can make her own decisions and can handle herself, but with the circumstances being so out of the ordinary she wants the perspective of someone who isn't directly involved.

Valkyrie spends the first few minutes of the call laughing and teasing her, but pulls herself together in order to actually talk about the reality of it.

"You don't think he's a creep? He _did_ hang around looking for you from the sounds of it," Valkyrie says.

Furiosa shrugs, though it can't be seen over the phone line. "I didn't get that vibe from him," she says, "He's awkward, but seemed... genuine."

"When you go on a date with him I'm coming along to make sure he doesn't turn you into a lampshade," Valkyrie says.

"No you're not," she counters, " _If_ I go out with him I'll send you the address, but I don't need you lurking around the background."

Val sighs into the receiver. "You never let me have any fun. Fine, but you're not allowed to cry to me when it turns out he can't fuck worth a damn."

Furiosa thinks about that possibility, that Max might have originally called the hotline because he can talk a good game but can't actually deliver on any of it. It wouldn't be an automatic dealbreaker- she's gotten to know him so far without even being turned on by him most of the time- but it _does_ make the prospect of dating him less appealing.

"Sex isn't everything," she says anyway, "If I was looking for a hook-up I wouldn't need to go on a date first."

Valkyrie snorts, and her voice is sly when she speaks next, "You _like_ him, don't you? You want to _cuddle_ with him, and take bubble baths together, and... Fuck I don't know, buy him flowers and shit, don't you?"

"Your knowledge of relationships is breathtaking," Furiosa replies dryly, side stepping the question of whether there is the possibility of feelings being involved now or in the future. For all their phone calls, she's only officially met the man in person once, after all.

It takes another day or two, but she does reach out to Max- with a simple text message rather than a call so they don't accidentally slip back into the habit of operator and client. > _It's Furiosa. Are you free on Friday? There's a movie marathon playing at the old mill if you're interested._ <

Max takes a long while to reply. > _i am free. what time should we meet?_ <

It's stilted, and Furiosa smiles a little to herself as she wonders how many variations he wrote and deleted. > _Sun's down at seven but the best movie doesn't start until nine._ <

His next reply takes even longer to get to her, and she regrets a little the fact that calling would be faster if nothing else.

> _auntie's is down the street, we could get dinner first?_ <

They keep texting back and forth like this until the plans are arranged, simple dinner and a movie. It's almost hilariously mundane considering their start, until she reflects that he'd needed to warm up to things then, too.

And what she had talked about with Valkyrie is true- Max is attractive, and there was chemistry or something like it meeting over coffee, but she isn't looking to just hook up with him. Going a little slow and mundane at the beginning isn't the end of the world.

Friday night arrives, and talking with Max over dinner is more comfortable than their impromptu coffee had been. She doesn't feel as if she's on the defensive- at least, no more than is usual on a date- and without the threat of immediate rejection he's looser, talking more like he does- _did_ on their phone calls.

What Furiosa is surprised to realize is how much of his end of the conversation is communicated through body language. There was no hint of it over the phone of course, but in person his face and entire body are expressive, his hands gesturing as he talks, like he's filling in for the words he struggles with.

It feels like one of their chatty calls, casual and comfortable, and by the time they leave for the screening she's sure that she'll want to see him again, barring a disaster.

There's less opportunity for talking during the movie- a marathon of pulpy post-apocalypse films, ranging from ambitiously gritty to terribly camp- but Furiosa whispers a comment about how she would handle the situation differently and Max replies in kind, and somehow they talk through it anyway.

She leans in against him, ostensibly so their neighbors won't be disturbed by the noise, but mostly because she just wants to. His arm is warm and solid where she presses up against it, his mouth smiling as he keeps his gaze darting between the screen and her face.

"In the next scene you can see an airplane up in the sky," Furiosa tells him conspiratorially.

He hums in response, and when the scene changes and he focuses on the screen in front of them his hand on the armrest brushes against hers. She hesitates for only a second before moving her hand to cover his, feeling awfully schoolgirlish as she does so.

Max glances back at her and she looks pointedly at the screen, where the definitely-shouldn't-exist-in-the-wasteland airplane is about to appear, but she catches his lips quirking up into a smile. A moment later his fingers curl around hers, and it feels a little surreal to be holding hands with someone she's listened to orgasm dozens of times and yet hasn't actually touched before. The feeling of his skin against hers sends a little thrill through her, far more so than it has any right to.

They make it through two movies before she's had enough of it.

"Wanna get out of here?" Furiosa asks, and rubs her thumb along his skin. They've only collapsed closer to one another as the movies played, and she can smell the soap he used on his skin, has been contemplating how little space she'd have to cross to have her lips on his.

He runs his eyes over her face and then down to take in the way the both of them are sitting leaned in together, seeming to register the closeness for the first time. "Mhmm," he hums, and gives her hand a squeeze.

She manages to make it outside the building before tugging Max into the shadows of the alley to kiss him. She expects him to hesitate, to maybe even need to pull back entirely, but he makes a quiet sound against her lips and presses back just as eagerly.

The kiss is deep and filthy within moments and Furiosa tugs him closer while stepping back, until her back is pressed up against the wall of the mill and he's right there with her, one hand bracing against the wall and the other grabbing at her hip. She can feel the reverberations from the movie still playing inside vibrating through her, a soundtrack of shouting and explosions easily covering the noise she makes when he slides a leg between her thighs.

"Your place or mine?" she says against his lips, because it seems pretty clear that's where this is heading- she can feel him growing hard where he presses up against her, and there's a matching coil of heat building in herself- and she has too many standards to fuck him for the first time in an alley.

Instead of answering Max pulls back abruptly, the only point of contact between them her hands still grabbing hold of his jacket. "I didn't mean to," he says, "I don't want-"

She doesn't know what he's trying to articulate and waits for him to find the words, a bit of unease making her shift her stance, closing herself off. He wouldn't be the first to use her hotline's service and then turn around and condemn her for offering it, to call her dirty and think her untouchable. She hadn't thought that Max was like that, but she's been wrong before.

"I don't expect anything," he says, "This isn't... It's one date, not..."

Furiosa takes her hands off him entirely and folds her arms over her chest. "If I was offering to have sex with you for money, you'd know," she says.

He flails his free hand and shakes his head. "I don't want to- to pressure you. I like you," Max says, dropping his eyes away from her entirely, "We don't need to go fast."

She's still not sure he isn't in the back of his head thinking of her work that way, but not wanting to go fast... That _does_ fit in with what she knows of him.

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want it," Furiosa says, and waits to see if he has any other objections, if they really should call it a night right now and drive their separate ways. She certainly wants him but not if he isn't into it, and if he really does have misgivings about her job she'd much rather hear them now, before she's invested any further.

He licks his lips and looks back at her, his eyes dark in the low light, his face not showing anything that looks like hesitance. "My flat's on crescent," he says.

She relaxes again, and smiles a little. "You're closer," she says, then leans back in for another kiss, something to sustain her on the drive over.

Furiosa follows behind his car, sending a quick text to Valkyrie with the address. It's a precaution she doesn't always bother with, probably wouldn't have if she'd met Max in a more expected way, but she has a hunch that Val will panic if she doesn't and she'd rather not be interrupted.

> _have fun ;) ;)_ < is the reply, followed quickly by > _if he sucks ur on ur own!!!!_ <

Furiosa snorts and tucks the phone away as she pulls into the parking lot outside his apartment; from the kissing just now she's pretty sure Max has _some_ idea of what he's doing, and she doesn't mind giving instructions if she has to.

Admittedly, she'd forgotten about the dog. It doesn't bark when Max gets his door open but it's waiting just on the other side eagerly, tail wagging and dancing from foot to foot.

"Oh." Furiosa isn't really an animal person and she isn't really of a mind to pretend to be right now, not when just seconds ago she was kissing Max up against the door and thinking about what else she'd like to do.

Max bends down to pat the dog's head, then points off and says, "Dog, pillow," and the dog sulkily makes for a blanket-covered heap in the corner of the room. He straightens back up and reaches out for her again with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, he won't be a bother."

She glances a little warily at the dog where it's lying down, head on paws, but over Max's shoulder she can see what she's pretty sure is a bedroom with a door that closes. She steps back into his space again and kisses him lightly, but breaks it off to tug at his jacket.

He takes the hint and removes the coat, discarding it carelessly over the back of his beat-up couch, then licks his lips while she does the same as if she's doing something far more provocative.

"Bed?" Max asks, hand skimming down her side like he's not sure he's allowed to touch.

"I didn't come up for coffee," she replies before pushing gently at his chest, towards the room behind him.

His bedroom is dark and a little messy, the sheets already mussed; he clicks the door shut and she sits down on the edge of the mattress, kicking off her shoes.

"Was this where you called from?" Furiosa asks, letting herself imagine it the way she hadn't when she was working.

"Ah, mostly," he says, a little embarrassed.

She hums and leans back against the bed, propped up on her elbows. She can picture it easily: Max furtive at first, hesitant, and then relaxing to splay across the whole bed as he gives in. "I thought about you," she says, because he's still just standing in the doorway. "About how you'd look when you listened to me."

He makes an inquisitive noise and steps closer, until he's standing next to the bed and his hand lands on her knee.

Furiosa leans up off her elbows and grabs a fistful of his shirt, tugging him down. "I'd rather see for myself," she says.

Max kisses her and she pulls him closer, his hand sliding from her knee up her thigh, firm enough to feel through the fabric of her trousers but light enough to just make her want more. She lets her legs fall a little more open, until he's standing between them, pressed up close.

The force of the kiss bears her down to the mattress while Max bends over her, hands starting to explore her body over her clothes. She wraps her arms around him but isn't so shy, and slips her hand under the fabric of his shirt to feel his skin directly.

He breaks away from the kiss and asks, "Can I see you?" His hands linger at the hem of her top, waiting for permission.

Furiosa nods her head and he tugs the shirt up, until she has to help him get it off entirely without trapping her. She's glad she went with the prettier bra for tonight despite the hassle it takes to fasten one-handed; Max runs his fingers over the little edging of lace along the top of the cups, tracing over one breast to the other. He doesn't ask if that can come off as well but she reaches underneath herself to undo the clasp anyway and pull the bra off, tossing it off the side of the bed.

He wraps a hand around one of her breasts and she presses herself into it, but half her mind is wondering if she should take off her prosthesis or leave it be.

"I'd imagine what you'd look like, sometimes," Max says, running his eyes over as much of her as he can see.

"You could have asked," she replies, because most do but he never had.

He shakes his head, "Was better waiting." She doesn't really know what to say to that, and a moment later he's kissing her again anyway.

Furiosa isn't ashamed of her body, but she knows that it doesn't- can't- live up to the perfect fantasy she can spin over the phone. At least on her end there wasn't a need to visualize her clients, so there were no expectations and no disappointments should she ever run into one. Max doesn't seem like he's disappointed as his hands roam over her skin but maybe it was for the best that she hadn't tried giving him a description beforehand.

She tugs at his own shirt while he sucks a kiss to the hinge of her jaw, simultaneously trying to keep him close and to get the fabric out from between them. He pulls away and strips the shirt off with a muted growl, and she runs her hand over the newly-revealed skin eagerly, flicks a finger over one of his dusky nipples.

Max retaliates by rubbing his chin against the crook of her neck as he kisses his way down, facial hair grown in just enough to make her squirm at the scratch of it.

The squirming makes her aware again of his legs between hers, and she reaches down to grab his ass and pull him forward, encouraging him to get up on the bed with her. As soon as his knee is on the mattress Furiosa bucks underneath him, twisting her hips and pushing at his chest, and it's not a good enough grapple to actually flip him but he rolls over obligingly anyway so he's the one on their back.

She leans back so she's sitting astride his hips, ass pressed right against where his hard cock strains, trapped inside his jeans. She's gotten so used to telling clients and actual hook-ups alike how massive their cocks are- rarely does so come across someone wanting to hear the opposite- that when she grinds down and realizes that Max isn't exactly deprived in this area she sucks in a surprised breath and knows _exactly_ what she wants for the evening.

"Tell me you have condoms," she says, curling down so she's within easy reach of his stupidly soft lips.

He hums in answer, eyes hooded, and Furiosa kisses him because that's exactly what she was hoping to hear. His hands find her breasts and stroke along the sensitive skin of them. "Can I," he starts to say, but trails off.

It's her turn to hum, this time a question. Max slides his hands down along her body until his fingers are dipping under the waistband of her pants, but he doesn't say whatever it was he was asking for out loud.

"Can you what, Max?" she prompts. Because of how much time she's spent on the phone with him she has _some_ idea of what he might want, but he was able to use his words then, he should be able to now.

He licks his lips but only stares up at her with wide-blown pupils, and Furiosa decides that she'd rather not lose out on sex because she's pushing him. She leans away from him again and he makes a tiny distressed noise. "Can I eat you out?" he blurts, like he's afraid she was getting ready to leave entirely.

She smiles, but restrains from anything like laughter. "Well since you asked so nicely..."

Peeling out of her pants takes an ungraceful minute, but she taps his belt and tells him to strip too, so they're matched in awkward maneuvers. Furiosa watches him struggle with the buckles for the brace around his leg and decides to extract her stump from the prosthesis after all- she's about to get very sweaty if they're doing this right, and it's not like it's a surprise that her arm ends where it does.

When her prosthetic arm is carefully laid on the bedside table she reclines against the headboard, stark naked and only a little self conscious. Max takes in the sight of her hungrily, not at all like a person just making do with what's been offered, and with that reassurance she beckons him closer, sliding her thighs open.

He crawls on hands and knees up the mattress towards her, his hard cock bobbing between his legs and eyes fixed on her with intent, and Furiosa reaches out first to grab the back of his head and pull him in for a kiss because fuck, she wants him.

She nips at his lower lip when he draws back, but his hand moves to rest against the outside of her vulva and she twitches her hips up into that instead, more than ready for some direct stimulation.

Max covers one of her nipples with his mouth as he starts shifting to lie down to get to her cunt and she sighs a little bit at the soft wet heat of it, but before she can really appreciate the feeling her nipple slips from his mouth again. He glances up at her and then his head is level with her cunt and he just looks at it for a moment, and she's already so wet that the anticipation just makes it all worse.

He puts his mouth on the skin of her inner thigh and sucks, then nuzzles the side of his scruffy cheek against the mark so she squirms. She swings her leg to knock against his side warningly; he grabs the leg and holds it with his free hand, but presses a soft kiss to her other thigh like an apology.

She hitches a breath when he puts his mouth directly on her folds, fingers parted to hold her cunt open for him, then gasps softly when his tongue finds her clit. She remembers him referring to eating her out often enough in their sessions, but it's something else entirely to realize that he's not just enthusiastic but _good_ at it as well.

Furiosa clutches at his shoulder and tries to stop the roll of her hips up into his mouth, but he doesn't seem to mind, slides his the hand on her leg over to her ass and encourages the movements. He works her over with devastating skill, sucking at her clit and then moving down to kiss the opening of her cunt, lapping up the wetness she's dripping everywhere, repeating what she reacts to most until the heat pooled in her pelvis is drawing tight.

It's the way he hums contentedly at precisely the right moment that has her coming, with the sort of heartfelt moan she's long since given up on pretending to replicate for customers.

He keeps licking her through it until she stops twitching, then pulls back a little and looks up to meet her eyes, a slightly smug look on his face as he licks her wetness off his lips. "That one real?" he asks, voice barely above a growl.

She would like to have a sharp retort for him, but her legs are shaking weakly and she's still panting to catch her breath, so she only gives a tug to his hair lightly in recrimination.

Max smiles lopsidedly at her, too earnest to really be called a smirk, and asks, "Again?"

She wants his mouth on her for the entire next year, but she was watching his own hips twitch against the bed while he ate her out and she also wants to not waste her chance at getting his cock inside her immediately. "I'd rather you fuck me," Furiosa says simply.

His eyes darken and he nods, leaving the vee of her legs to scrabble at the drawer of his nightstand for a condom.

"How do you want it?" she asks, rolling onto her side to watch the muscles in his back flex as he digs around the cluttered drawer. She's starting to wonder if he does have condoms after all or if maybe she'll have to fish out the one in her wallet in the other room when he finally pulls out the box with a triumphant little noise.

It's a bit crushed, but unopened and unexpired. The fact that she asked him a question catches up with him and Max blinks at her, eyes flicking over the length of her body.

"You on top," he says without hesitation, and she smiles at him.

Rolling on a condom one-handed is an ordeal Furiosa has no interest in attempting at present, so she plants herself on his thighs and lets him do it himself, though it's a temptation to reach out and touch the bare skin of his hard cock.

When he's covered she slides up closer, until the lips of her cunt part for his dick and she grinds her hips against the hot length of it to the sound of his groan. Max's hands reach out for her and wrap around the cheeks of her ass, but he doesn't try to pull her onto his cock.

She leans forward so they're pressed chest-to-chest and kisses him, rocking her hips minutely with him still outside of her.

"Furiosa..." he groans imploringly after a few long teasing seconds of this, and she gives his lips one last peck before reaching down to guide his cock inside.

She moans a little as her walls stretch around him and he sinks in deep, exactly the delicious feeling she was anticipating. Furiosa gives herself a moment to just enjoy the sensation of being filled before she starts moving, grinding her hips down against his in small movements.

Max's hands on her ass squeeze and then relax, his breathing ragged; she clenches her muscles down around his cock and he lets out a deep noise, hips twitching up into her.

When the stretch isn't quite so fresh she takes pity on him and starts making larger movements, letting his cock draw out most of the way before she sinks back down, pulling back to sit up on her knees for more leverage as her pace picks up. She braces her hand against his chest and Max draws one of his around her front, reaching for her breasts.

He just cups the flesh of it for a moment as she moves, then strokes over her nipple, too light to do anything but tease.

Furiosa grabs his hand and brings it to her cunt, and he drags his fingers down to where he's disappearing inside her with a groan before moving to touch her clit. His touch is as light here as it was on her breast, but she rewards each firmer rub with a squeeze of her cunt, until he's stopped being so hesitant.

"Are you going to come?" she asks, looking down at his flushed face, his eyes nearly shut and mouth panting. He looks good like this, all laid out for her, the muscles under his skin twitching like he's restraining himself from fucking up into her.

He makes an incoherent noise in reply, and she grinds down against him hard, clenching around his cock.

"I want you to," Furiosa tells him, honest and breathless, "I want to finally see you come, Max, want to feel you..."

He groans deeply and snaps his hips up into her, and she gasps at the jolt of it before moving to meet his thrusts. Max barely lasts any longer before he's burying himself deep and coming, shouting her name- her real name, not the fake she's heard too often- as he does.

Being able to actually watch his face, to know for sure that she's the one who made him come, sends a wave of satisfaction through her, and she keeps riding him until his cock is soft enough to slip out on its own.

"You didn't," he says when he's slightly more recovered, hand still covering her clit but no longer actively rubbing.

Furiosa leans down and licks into his mouth, clenches her cunt down around nothing for the pulse being empty sends along her nerves. "No," she agrees, "But we have all night."


End file.
